


Gods and Monsters

by lucycourageous



Series: Sun and Moon [4]
Category: Assassin's Creed - All Media Types
Genre: Aftermath of Violence, Angst, Assassin's Creed: Syndicate, Canon-Typical Violence, Death, Jack the Ripper DLC, Multi, Mythology and Folklore, there may be some slight divergence from the canon timeline of the dlc, uncanniness
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-22
Updated: 2021-03-03
Packaged: 2021-03-12 17:49:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,915
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29638359
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lucycourageous/pseuds/lucycourageous
Summary: “What does the letter say?”Evie reads the words aloud for Henry as ice creeps down her spine and turns the skin beneath her fingernails blue, "A grave threat to the Brotherhood. Please come immediately. Jacob.”
Relationships: Evie Frye & Jacob Frye, Evie Frye/Henry Green | Jayadeep Mir
Series: Sun and Moon [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2127885
Comments: 4
Kudos: 7





	1. Chapter 1

The Indian night is warm, and beautiful, and smells like jasmine, and Evie Frye is in a bad mood.

If she has to attend one more of the Viceroy’s tedious receptions this year, she won’t be held responsible for her actions. Thank God for Henry, whose calming presence is often the only thing standing between yet another pompous young aristocrat and a bloody nose. Her only consolation is that the governor’s parties, however infuriating they may be, are always a goldmine of information for the Brotherhood – the two of them will have plenty of news to report tomorrow morning. 

It’s almost midnight by the time they make it home to their little bungalow. There’s a light burning in the front hall, no doubt left out for them by their housekeeper, Kala, and Evie makes a beeline for it, her only wish in this moment to get out of this monstrosity of a dress as soon as possible. How other women wear these things day in, day out, she will never understand. 

She doesn’t notice the envelope which sits unobtrusively on the wicker table near the door at first, actually passes it by entirely on her way to the bedroom, her hands already straining at the back of her dress to try and get the laces of her bodice undone. It’s only Henry’s soft noise of surprise that makes her turn. 

“There’s a letter for you, my love. From England.” 

Evie pauses, glancing down at the piece of folded paper in his hand, “Who from? I expect it can wait until morning-”

She cuts herself short as she looks a little closer at the letter, her hand moving automatically to press against her rib cage, where it feels as though a string has suddenly been drawn taught. She wasn’t expecting a letter from him – in fact, he hardly ever remembers to write at all – but there’s no mistaking Jacob’s messy scrawl on the front of the envelope. 

As she reaches for it, curious, her thumb prickles in a faint warning; one that she fails to heed. 

The second her fingertips touch the paper, she stiffens, her whole body going rigid as a wave of emotion that is definitely not hers rips through her, nearly drowning her in grief and guilt and fear. _Jacob’s_ fear. 

She doesn’t know how long the feeling lasts, but when it subsides, she is shaking and drenched in sweat. 

“Evie, what is it, what’s wrong?” 

Henry’s hand hovers uncertainly in the air before settling on her shoulder, as though he can’t quite locate it, and she realises she’s close to vanishing entirely. Using the warmth of his hand as an anchor, she makes a conscious effort to root herself to the here and now and feels herself solidify under his touch. 

“I’m alright.” 

“What does it say?” 

She reads the words aloud for Henry’s sake, but she knows what they must say before she even looks at them: the unwritten message that Jacob left for her was perfectly clear. 

“A grave threat to the Brotherhood. Please come immediately. Jacob.” 

Henry’s hand tightens reflexively on her shoulder, a shadow passing over his handsome face, “A grave threat…”

“I must go to London.” 

“Of course. First thing in the morning, we’ll see about booking your passage…”

“I have to go now,” she insists, striding towards their bedroom, “you don’t understand, Henry, the way he felt when he wrote that letter…something’s scared him, badly.” 

“Alright,” Henry soothes, hurrying to keep up with her and politely refraining from commenting on the fact that his wife’s shape is blurring at the edges, flickering in and out of focus like a guttering oil lamp, “you pack your things, I’ll see what I can do.” 

Relieved, she gives him a quick, brushing kiss, “Thank you.” 

He holds her for a moment, then departs back the way they came, his dark hair gleaming in the dimly lit corridor. 

There are several strings to pull and a couple of bureaucrats to bribe in order to make it happen, but within a day, Evie’s on a steamer bound for Britain, and within an hour of their departure, she feels like she’s going to go mad. There is nothing to do now except pace the length of her cabin with Jacob’s words going round and round in her head – and she has at least a month of travel still ahead of her. She can’t stand it, knowing that her brother is in trouble while she’s powerless to help, _not_ knowing what might happen before she can get to him; what might have already happened. 

Once, she would have just _known_ that something was wrong: when they were young, thoughts and feelings flowed between them as easily as water through a grate. But they have been too far apart for too long, time and distance reducing them to communication through letters and other such weak intermediaries, just like everyone else. 

Every night, lying sleepless in her bed, she closes her eyes and tries to reach him the way she always used to be able to, the way she never used to have to think about. Across several oceans, she whispers that he doesn’t have to worry anymore – the older (and superior) Frye twin is on her way. 

She never receives any response. 

Her ship docks in Southampton thirty-one days after she left Bombay, and Evie is down the gangplank and heading to the train station before most of the other passengers have time to gather their belongings. 

It is strange to be back on English soil, under an autumn sky that is vast and indifferent, cut by a wind both sharp and cold. She watches the fields and towns fly by through the train window, drinking in the muted greens and greys of the countryside, so different from all the vibrant colour of India. When they stop at Woking, she climbs out of the carriage for a moment and takes a deep breath, feeling the air rake against her lungs like a reproach, as though demanding to know where she’s been all these years. Even standing on a crowded railway platform, it brings back memories of nights spent running through dark, wet fields, her feet barely touching the floor, feeling vast, eternal, uncatchable – and she smiles grimly to herself. 

(Nearby, a mother standing on the platform with her young son catches her at it and turns pale, hurrying to chivvy the child in the opposite direction as fast as her voluminous skirts will allow - she must have imagined it, but for a moment she could have sworn that the tall woman now climbing back onto the London train had a mouth full of fangs, sharp and white.) 

She still hasn’t heard anything from Jacob. 

There is _something_ : a gnawing sensation of terrible dread that grows with every passing moment. She tells herself that she doesn’t know what it means, that there’s no reason to suspect the worst – but Abberline’s men are waiting for her at the station, and surely that cannot be a coincidence. Forced to acknowledge that it probably wouldn’t be a good idea to make a scene at Waterloo within minutes of arriving back in the city, she reluctantly allows them to escort her to the Yard. 

The man who meets her there is a shadow of the well-meaning, enthusiastic police sergeant she knew in 1868: Abberline looks tired and worn, like a weary soldier who has seen too many battles. He greets her perfunctorily - the two of them had never had a great deal to do with each other beyond their shared work, so she supposes she shouldn't be surprised by his lack of enthusiasm.

“Miss Frye.” 

“Whatever you need from me inspector, can it wait? My brother summoned me all the way from India, I must speak to him as soon as possible.” 

“I’m afraid that won’t be possible.” 

Her heartbeat quickens in her chest, “Why not?” 

“Your brother has vanished without a trace. We fear he may have fallen victim to the same monster that is currently terrorising our streets. We call him the Ripper-”

She barely hears him, can’t concentrate on what he’s saying when it feels as though her entire body has turned to glass and may shatter at any moment. 

“Is Jacob dead?” 

The words snap out of her sharper than she means them to, and the inspector flinches away from her at once, one hand dipping to the pistol at his hip, his eyes flashing with an old, animal instinct: fight and survive. Impatient, she grabs him by the wrist, staring hard into his face, “Inspector.” 

She can smell his adrenaline leaking into the air as he forces himself to return her gaze, and it rouses instincts of her own, the feral urge to run her prey to ground and sink her teeth into its throat. It startles her a little, how easily riled she is, and she loosens her grip on him a little.

“I don’t know,” Frederick confesses, a note of quiet desperation stealing into his voice, “not for sure. I dare not believe that he is, but…”

He trails off, and with a flash of remorse, Evie lets him go. She is not the only one in this city who loves Jacob. 

“Tell me everything, Fred.” 

The picture Abberline paints is a bleak one: multiple women dead, their lives cut cruelly short and their deaths twisted into a threat, a spectacle. A police investigation beleaguered by sensationalist journalism and false clues. The public teetering on the brink of full-blown hysteria and looking for a target upon which to unleash their terror and rage; and her brother, lost somewhere in this powder keg of a city. Evie isn’t usually the type to second-guess herself, but she can’t help feeling that if she had never left London…

“And you believe the Ripper may be an Assassin?” 

“I think it is a strong possibility, but you will be a better judge than I. He is certainly no common butcher, whatever the newspapers say. And with your brother missing, you may be the only one able to stop him.” 

An Assassin gone rogue…it would certainly constitute a grave threat to the Brotherhood. And if he was trained by Jacob…

“Will you help, Miss Frye?” 

“Of course,” she says, a little indignant that he feels the need to ask. She gestures for him to lead the way out of the door, “After you.” 

Evie has seen a lot of crime scenes in her time, but the site of Mary Ann Nicholls’ death is more hellish than most. To her eyes, the old stains are as fresh as if the blood had been spilled only moments before, and the gasps of the dying woman linger in her ears. Picking up the ring that the Assassin had so desperately flung away, Evie feels a deep wave of sorrow rush over her. 

_She was an initiate…_

She wonders how this woman came to the Brotherhood, what had driven her to accept their training, uphold their Creed, share their purpose. Perhaps it had seemed like a better option than whatever had come before. But this was where that choice and all that bravery had led her: to a painful death in an unfeeling alleyway, under a name that wasn’t even hers. 

_I will not let your death be in vain, sister. I will find the one who killed you and put an end to him._

“I need to see Jacob’s lodgings,” she says. Her voice sounds like it’s coming from miles away, her tongue thick and sluggish in her mouth, “He may have left further clues for me there.” 

One of Abberline’s constables, guarding the entrance to the yard, hears her and pipes up before the inspector has a chance to speak, “We already searched it top to bottom, miss, and found nothing.” 

She looks at him. 

Abberline can’t see her face, but he sees his constable freeze, his eyes wide, his mouth suddenly slack. 

“Thank you, Thompson,” he says, laying a hand on the lad’s shoulder, “Miss Frye may be able to spot something we missed. She has…excellent eyesight.” 

Evie puts a hand to her face as Abberline ushers the young man away from the yard and back to the street, trying to steady her breathing. She hasn’t felt this close to losing control in a long time. 

“I’m sorry,” she says, when Abberline returns, conspicuously silent, “I’m just tired.” 

“I understand. I can give you Jacob’s address. But I should warn you, Miss Frye, the way we found his rooms… It must have been quite a struggle.” 

She takes note of the euphemistic language and nods tightly, “Thank you, inspector. I won’t fail you.” 

In the end, she almost doesn't need the exact address. Evie finds that she can tell where Jacob’s lodgings are when she’s still a street away: that awful sense of foreboding that bothered her on the train up to London is back, but this time it’s even more visceral than before, lingering in her nostrils like the smell of rotting meat under an unrelenting sun. She follows the stench all the way to Jacob’s door – which still bears a police sign forbidding entry to civilians – where she has to stop and take a breath, steeling herself against what she might find. 

There is so much blood. Splattering the walls, smeared across the floor. At first all she can do is stare, horrified.

She knows deep down how unlikely it is that anyone could survive losing that much blood – even her brother, for whom injuries used to be semi-optional and easily shrugged off, unless of course he felt like milking everyone around him for a little bit of sympathy.

And yet, a part of her passionately resists the idea that Jacob is gone. Wouldn’t she feel it if he died, no matter how far apart they were? Perhaps he’s still alive but gravely wounded, kept captive somewhere, too weak to heal and slowly bleeding out, his life fading away with every heartbeat-

_Enough._

Whether Jacob is dead or not, she owes it to him and the rest of this city to find the Ripper – and wallowing in her own fears will not get her any closer to him. 

“Come on, Jacob,” she murmurs, gazing around the wreckage of his rooms, “you knew I would come. I know you must have left me a sign…”

On the rooftop opposite, a figure wrapped in a shroud of fog and rough sackcloth watches her through the window with a species of amused curiosity. He remembers her from when he was a child: elegant and watchful, with eyes like chips of green ice. She looks older now, but no less formidable, and though there is a brightness about her that reminds him of Jacob, her light is inter-cut with slashes of darkness, as deep as a moonless night.

That’s interesting.

Perhaps, he thinks, as he sidles casually around a corner and out of her view, she will see what Jacob could not. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Abberline’s hands clench themselves into fists as he frowns down at the newspaper, vainly hoping that if he only stares hard enough, it might disappear. The headline is bold and dripping with gleeful melodrama, like something out of a penny-dreadful.
> 
> MURDER AT OWERS MANOR

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I probably should have written this on the first chapter (and maybe it goes without saying), but just as a general warning, I'm writing this fic under the assumption that most readers will have either played the DLC or read a summary of it. If by any chance someone is reading this who isn't familiar with the plot of the Jack the Ripper DLC, you might find it helpful to go and look up what happens in it, just because I'm going to be skimming over a lot of the major character introductions and plot points. Thanks!

Whitechapel is like something out of a nightmare.

It was never the most salubrious of boroughs, but Evie can see that things have gotten even worse in the fifteen years she’s been away. There is misery and poverty everywhere she looks, the streets crowded with shivering children dressed in rags, men clutching bottles, and women with knives in their pockets. 

The birds are gone, too. 

When she left the city, it seemed that there’d been one or two on every rooftop – crows and magpies, for preference, though sometimes hawks and falcons too. Jacob told her the reason he liked corvids so much was because they were more intelligent and made better spies than any other native British species; but privately, Evie always suspected that it was at least a little bit to do with putting on a show. Jacob had always had a flair for the dramatic, ever since they were children. 

Walking through this city without him, she misses him so much it feels like a hole in her heart. 

Now there are just men and women in purple jackets, prowling the streets and looking for any excuse to intimidate and brutalise. She can’t imagine how much it must have hurt Jacob to see Jack turn his beloved Rooks against him and the people of Whitechapel, the people who needed their help and protection the most. 

_Once the Ripper is dealt with,_ she thinks, looking down at them as she skirts the rooftops, _they will be brought to heel._

The clue she found in Jacob’s lodgings leads her to a young woman named Nellie. She can see straight away why her brother took a shine to her, can’t help liking her herself. She’s intelligent and belligerent and brave, and even with danger on all sides, she still persists in trying to protect her fellow women. 

The same cannot be said for Olwyn Owers. 

Evie’s blood boils as she watches the woman from the middle of a crowd. She’s encountered this kind of banal evil before, the wickedness of bullies and manipulators, those who will do anything just to gain power, all the while fully intending to use it against others at the first opportunity. But for some reason, this…pretence infuriates her, almost makes her want to attack her there and then. How dare Owers claim to care about women like Nellie when she treats them as she does, like possessions, like cattle - when she happily sends them to their deaths at the hands of the Ripper? And how is it that the people watching do not see the greed oozing from her pores, do not see through this hollow sham of a human being? 

When she flees - displaying that finely-tuned sensitivity to danger that all such cowards share - Evie follows, driven by the fury of seeing how quickly twenty years of her brother’s work has come undone. On the train out of London, she unsheathes her hidden blade, watching it glitter like a shard of frozen moonlight. She never takes pleasure in her kills; to do so would be to risk a descent into a madness not unlike Jack’s, a darkness from which there may be no return. All the same. She will be glad when Lady Owers is dead. 

The country manor is a fortress, swarming with guards and guests, but Evie finds a way through. Unlike Jacob, who never had the patience for stealth work, she has always been good at it: poised and unruffled, waiting for a head to turn so she can slip by, letting herself blend into the background, holding so still that a guard can pass within an inch of her without even knowing that she’s there. On some level, she thinks they do register her presence – a prickle of gooseflesh on their arms, the itchy feeling of eyes on the back of your neck. But when they turn around, she is already gone. 

The metallic scent of desperation draws her to the top of the mansion. She finds Lady Owers burning documents, sweat beading at her hairline as she leans close to the fireplace, her teeth bared in a frantic snarl. It would be easy to kill her before she even turned around…but a part of Evie, small and vicious, wants the woman to see her face and know that Fate has finally caught up with her. 

“Good evening, Lady Owers.” 

There is a moment, before her blade pierces the woman’s throat, that their eyes meet – but there is no fear, no shock, and Evie is unpleasantly surprised to find that her first response is disappointment. Owers must have known someone was coming for her, one way or another. The only question was who would get there first: her or Jack. 

As the dying woman gasps on the floor, Evie flips through the few documents that remain unburned, careful to use her right hand so as to avoid staining the paper with blood. She hisses between her teeth as she scans them, looking for something useful and coming up with nothing. 

Frustrated, she glances down…and sees something clutched in Owers’ hand. A photograph. Four men, three of them bearing the mark of the Templars on their sleeve, their faces scratched out of existence; the fourth, circled. Owers wheezes as Evie takes it from her – possibly a protest, possibly a laugh. Evie doesn’t care. She has her next clue. 

“Who are these men? What has Jack done with them?” 

Owers’ eyes are vacant, only the faintest spark of life left in them. 

_Oh no you don’t._

Evie rests her hand on her neck, wrinkling her nose in distaste at the feeling of rapidly cooling blood under her palm, and focuses on the weak trembling of her Owers’ pulse; slow now, so slow. As the woman’s last breath rattles out, Evie closes her eyes, takes a deep breath and concentrates. 

It’s been a while since she’s had to do this. 

When she opens her eyes, the shade of Lady Owers stands before her, momentarily resurrected, looking down on her with spiteful amusement. It seems that it’s always this way: they know that their lives are over, and yet they cling to their old patterns and personality, too recently dead to have forgotten who they used to be. 

_“Oh dear, it seems you were a little hasty with that blade of yours, Miss Frye.”_

Nettled and unwilling to admit that this ghost has a point, Evie thrusts the photograph in her face, “Tell me who they are.” 

Owers considers her, one eyebrow raised, _“I suppose I should be grateful. Much better to die at your hands than the Ripper’s. Very well. Three of them are with Mr Jack – they will be dead soon if they aren’t already. The fourth, Mr Weaversbrook, will be next.”_

Evie removes her hand from the dead woman’s neck and the spectre vanishes, retreating into the yawning mouth of the grave and whatever awaits her there. And though she still speaks the traditional words over her body, in truth, Evie wishes Olwyn Owers anything but peaceful rest.

The clock chimes midnight as she drops out of an upstairs window and sneaks towards an unattended carriage, unaware of the cold, dead eyes that watch her from above. 

***

Abberline’s hands clench themselves into fists as he frowns down at the newspaper, vainly hoping that if he only stares hard enough, it might disappear. It had been waiting for him when he walked in this morning, not neatly folded as usual, but spread out to cover the whole of his desk, making sure he would see it. The headline is bold and dripping with gleeful melodrama, like something out of a penny-dreadful. 

__

_MURDER AT OWERS MANOR_

__

_It is the sad duty of this reporter to detail the tragic events of last evening when an entire party of innocents were brutally slaughtered while attending a party at Owers Manor. The victims include the Lady of the Manor, alongside her husband, their guests and a great many of their household staff._

Fred’s stomach twists as he skims the rest of the article, then drops as his eyes catch on the final paragraph. 

__

_While police have yet to name a suspect, one eyewitness, a menial labourer in the employ of Lady Owers, said that he observed a mysterious woman skulking around the gardens of the Manor approximately half an hour before these despicable murders took place. He described her as tall, dark haired, and wearing men’s breeches. Anyone with information that may help to identify this woman should contact..._

Fred stops reading, his mouth suddenly dry. Evie had sent a brief message yesterday evening, barely more than a line or two of clear, flowing script: _Pursuing lead, Lady O. Standby for news._

He hasn’t heard from her since. 

There had already been rumblings of dissent among his men over the last few days. The constable that Evie…encountered at the site of the Nicholls murder still hasn’t quite recovered from the experience, and his friends, angry and frightened, are more than happy to spread slander on his behalf. They mutter under their breath that there’s something unnatural about that Frye woman, ask each other why the inspector would let her get involved with the investigation in the first place. Some of them have even started to speculate that she’s some kind of demon, a witch that has him in thrall. 

And now this, and the newspaper left out for him like an accusation, a confirmation of guilt. 

It doesn’t matter that Abberline – who has had it impressed upon him many times by Jacob that Assassins never kill civilians – knows perfectly well that Evie wasn’t responsible for the wholesale slaughter at Owers Manor. All that matters is what people believe. And when gripped by panic and blinded by misinformation…people will believe anything. 

There’s a clatter at the window and Evie appears. He supposes it says something that he’s not at all surprised to find a Frye twin crouching on his windowsill – Lord knows Jacob comes and goes as he pleases, using the window far more often than the door. She looks pale, the dark circles under her eyes suggesting that she’s slept little, if at all, in the last few days. 

“Miss Frye, please tell me you achieved something on your trip to Owers Manor.” 

She tilts her head on one side, quick to notice the rough, bitter edge to his words. Wearily, he hands her the newspaper, watching as she hops down from the windowsill, her sharp eyes scanning the headline. 

“Murder at Owers Manor.” 

Her physical reaction is contained, a barely noticeable tightening of her mouth as she reads, but her anger colours the air around her and the room feels suddenly a degree or two colder. 

“If you were trying to get a rise out of the Ripper, you certainly succeeded,” he says, grimly. 

Evie’s voice is brittle like splintered ice and it echoes with the terrible finality of breaking bone, “Jack…you truly have betrayed the Creed.” 

“Rumour has it that there was a woman at Owers Manor the night of the Lady Owers’ death. A woman matching your description. If you’re not careful, you could find yourself accused of the crimes of Jack the Ripper.” 

She isn’t listening. Her eyes are fixed intently on the paper, a small furrow between her brows as she murmurs, more to herself than to him, “Weaversbrook Publishing…”

He feels a hot spark of frustration. He’s seen her like this before when they worked together in the past: so focused on the mission that everything else fades away. It’s what makes her so effective as an Assassin, but he fears that in this case it is blinding her to a very real danger. 

“Evie.” His uncharacteristic use of her first name is what catches her attention, and he has to suppress the urge to shiver as she looks at him: her eyes flicker, the pupils seeming to swallow up the green of her irises. Shrugging off the dread that claws at his throat, he taps the newspaper in her hand emphatically, speaking low and fast, “This is serious. I can’t protect you and the Brotherhood forever, not when people keep dying.” 

Evie’s expression shifts just a little, the cool façade cracking for a moment, and he realises with a kind of horror that perhaps, despite all her abilities, all her training and skill, she feels just as desperate and guilty as he does. 

Then her eyes harden once more and she nods, “I understand, inspector, and I believe I have a new lead on the Ripper. But I need your help.” She points at the small print above the newspaper headline, indicating the name of the publisher. “This man, Weaversbrook. The Ripper is coming for him next – I must find him before Jack does. Do you know where I can start?” 

The name rings a bell. Abberline thinks, and in a sudden flash he remembers Jacob flying through his office like a whirlwind, his hair dishevelled, his eyes wild, telling him breathlessly that he’d had an idea to try and get the newspapers to agree to stop publishing letters purportedly sent by the Ripper and was on his way to St Paul’s to meet with one of them. And the name Weaversbrook does sound familiar…

“St Paul’s,” he says, “I believe Jacob met with him at his home there before he disappeared.” 

It hurts even to speak about Jacob. If he dwells on him for too long, Fred could easily fall into the trap of imagining him cold and lifeless, or worse, alive and in terrible pain, subject to whatever degradations Jack the Ripper can devise. So he doesn’t, snatching his mind back from that precipice the same way he would jerk his hand back from a fire. 

Perhaps Evie can see something of that pain in his face, because to his relief, she doesn’t press him for more details. Instead, she springs lightly onto the windowsill, steadying herself against the window frame with one hand. She still moves like she did when she was twenty, lithe and graceful, and he feels a jolt of envy, combined with a rush of grief for times long past. It makes him speak more softly than he otherwise might have. 

“Please be careful, Miss Frye. If anything happens to you, we may never be able to stop him.” 

“I know.” 

“Go then.” 

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading!


End file.
